


Waylaid

by killabeez



Category: Highlander, Highlander (1986 1991 1994 2000 2007), Highlander: The Series
Genre: First Time, Historical, M/M, Mystery, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-06-20
Updated: 2004-06-20
Packaged: 2017-10-17 02:58:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/172192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killabeez/pseuds/killabeez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fateful meeting of two Immortals in 1715 results in an unexpected friendship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waylaid

**Author's Note:**

  * For [baffledking](https://archiveofourown.org/users/baffledking/gifts).



> Written for the Highlander Spring Fever challenge, for baffledking, who requested "Connor and any canon male, but not Duncan or Methos." Betaed by the wonderful Lys and encouraged by hafital and Rhiannon Shaw, and many other kind folks, for which I am very, very grateful. If historical inaccuracies remain, I sincerely apologize, and please tell me!

_Sussex, 1715_

Connor MacLeod was not, ordinarily, an incautious man. He took risks in business as any man did, and was not afraid to fight if he had to, but by both natural inclination and force of long habit, the risks he took were nearly always calculated and carefully chosen. He guarded his thoughts even against those few he trusted, wagered only what he could afford to lose.

This, however, had not been an ordinary month, and as he rode alone through a thick forest in the south of England, the mire of his own thoughts seemed a greater threat than the rogues and wild creatures that might be lurking in the gathering dark. It was no longer dusk, or even twilight; the moon had long since risen. Half-hidden by clouds, it provided little relief against the blackness of the woods. He'd have done better to stop in the last village and well he knew it, but heedless of the cold March wind that stirred the dead leaves, he pushed his horse onward.

His impatience gained him little. He'd been pushing the animal since London, and it didn't matter how much he wanted to be gone from this bleak country, to be at sea with the roll of a ship under his feet and the salt spray in his face, he still had more than half a day's ride ahead of him. The horse needed rest, as he did.

It wasn't the first time this week he'd let recklessness overcome common sense, he thought, a little angry with himself. Immortal he might be, but he'd never counted himself a fool—and yet that was exactly the way he'd been acting these last days. Weeks, if he was honest with himself. Since he'd left Duncan in Dublin, he'd managed to land himself in a pub brawl, very nearly gotten himself killed in front of a dozen witnesses, and put most of his considerable fortune at risk in a business venture that might be considered uncertain at best. Now, he was riding alone at night along a notoriously dangerous stretch of road without so much as a pistol to hand. What was the matter with him?

The gelding huffed, shaking his head against the bit and dragging his feet as if his rider's irritation communicated itself. His shoes scraped against stones in the road, the sound jarring against the soft night sounds of the woods. Connor steadied him with his hands and the touch of his legs, trying to judge the distance he'd traveled since the last road marker. Probably better press on to the next village at this point, if his reckoning was right. He urged the reluctant animal onward, giving him rein; just then, the moon disappeared behind a cloud and the wind shifted to their backs, scattering leaves across the path before them. The horse tensed, shying nervously.

Connor's instincts lifted the hair at the back of his neck. Had he heard something off in the trees to the right? Or was it just the wind making him nervous, too? He pulled his mount to a halt, or as close as the skittish gelding would get to a halt, and listened.

"What is it, my friend? Is something out there?"

The horse's nostrils flared, scenting something. Connor didn't like it. Ahead of him, a bend in the path obscured the way forward, providing good cover for an ambush. Trouble, though, was most likely to come from behind—someone who had followed him from the last village. To the left, he knew, ran a river that paralleled the track. The water would be high this time of year. Trying to take it on in the dark wasn't the best of ideas, but then, he could hardly do worse than he had been lately.

An icy needle slid into the vulnerable hollow at the base of his skull, making tiny lights flicker at the edges of his vision and a nerve-jarring ache run through his ears, his jaw and the bones of his face. A familiar ache. He laughed softly, a grim exhalation in the dark. Of course it could be worse—it could always be worse. Why did he keep forgetting that?

His sword was wrapped and tied behind the saddle, but its ivory hilt was free. Whoever it was had circled past him in the woods, he guessed, and that's what he'd heard off to the right. Probably one behind him, as well; they didn't seem to be looking for a fair fight. The river, then, and no help for it. Not bothering to draw the blade, he wheeled his horse sharply and kicked him forward, making for the trees.

A blinding light flashed against his eyes and, a fraction of a second later, the sharp crack of a pistol shattered the night. The gelding flinched violently and balked against his commands, almost throwing him. Spots dazzling his vision, blind, Connor thought for a second that he'd been shot, or the horse had—but the clouds moved and moonlight spilled once more across the path as a man rode out from the trees some twenty feet away, pistol pointed at the sky. _Immortal,_ his sixth sense told him without doubt, confirming what he already knew.

"Whatever you're planning," the man said calmly, "I wouldn't, if I were you."

The stranger looked strong, capable. His accent and his dark, refined looks said gentry, and he was dressed like a gentleman, but in plain fashion, his hair tied at his neck. He wore a hunting rifle slung over his shoulder. Connor couldn't see a sword, but knew he'd have one somewhere. Two more men stepped out beside the first, one carrying a lantern and a similar rifle, pointed directly at Connor, the other wearing a pistol and a large knife, and restraining a hound on a leash.

"If you and I have business," Connor said, "then by all means, let's discuss it privately."

"Oh, we do have business, Mr....?"

Connor hesitated only a fraction of a second. "Nash. John Nash."

"Well, I suggest you get down from your horse, Mr. Nash, and keep your hands where I can see them. That way, I won't be forced to ask Ned here to shoot you."

Connor's hesitation was longer this time. Once on foot, he lost his best chance at escape. On the other hand, the burly Ned looked to be a very good shot, and there'd been a certain dark, amused tone in his master's voice that suggested he'd be only too glad if Connor forced his hand. Worse, Connor could hear hoofbeats approaching behind him, at least two more riders cutting off his escape.

"If this is about money, perhaps we can come to some agreement--"

The other Immortal laughed, a deep, rich sound that carried in the cold night air. "If this is about money. Did you hear that, Ned? I think our friend here has a sense of humor. Too bad I don't find it funny. What about you, Stephen?" This was pitched to reach the approaching riders. "Do you find it funny?" All the amusement had gone out of his expression, and his voice turned cold. He unslung his rifle with deliberate efficiency. "Is that what they say to you, Mr. Nash, before you end their lives?"

And what was that he'd been thinking about things getting worse? His horse was close to panic, muscles jumping under his thighs, and he struggled to keep the beast steady. "I don't know what you're talking about. I haven't killed anyone." _Not this week, anyway._ He risked a glance behind him, and had time to see only the silhouette of the second rider bearing down on him fast, the gleam of the polished weapon in his hands. _What the hell have you stumbled into, MacLeod?_ "There's been a mistake--"

"There's no mistake, you devil." The newcomer flung himself off his horse. Despite a white sling that bound his arm to his side, the muzzle of his gun sought Connor without mercy, and there was none in his voice, drawn taut with grief and rage. Connor let go of the reins and kicked his horse as hard as he could, hoping the beast would bolt—but too late.

For the second time, he saw the flash before he heard the report of the gun; this time, the sound seemed to strike him like a physical blow. He saw nothing but light, felt nothing. The ground was cold beneath him, but he was weightless, and there was a ringing in his ears. It hurt...

He made the mistake of drawing a breath.

It was not the first time he'd been gut-shot. No, his body knew this misery too well, in fact, and informed him in excruciating detail that the agony he felt now was just the beginning, and that it was going to get a lot worse before it got better. He'd never had Duncan's gift for swift healing.

"Stand down, Mr. Bench! Is this the man, Stephen?"

"I--I'm not sure."

"Be sure."

The ringing in Connor's ears made this sound far away, though they must have been standing right over him. He could feel the swath of the lantern's light against his eyelids. The first real crest of pain pressed hard against his distorted awareness, and he fought to sink deeper into the darkness, to hold it back a little longer.

"No. No, it isn't him."

Hands rummaged in his coat, and he choked, the pain taking him in scarlet waves. He tried to curl around it, but that made it worse. Wet heat welled against his fingers, spread against his belly. "He's got something here, sir. Papers."

"It looks like our Mr. Nash is on his way to Portsmouth. These are for the merchant ship _Emma..._ dated two days ago."

"I'm sorry, Matthew. I thought--"

"It doesn't matter now."

"Should we take 'im to the vicarage, sir?"

"Dr. Braithewaite went to his sister's day before yesterday. No, I'll take him to the house."

Those unpitying hands pressed against the wound in his belly. Immortal, his survival instincts warned through the wave of fresh agony. Immortal. Friend or foe? Beheading sounded like a mercy just then, and fighting was out of the question for the moment in any case. But his horse... dead or not, Ramirez would kill him if he lost that sword. "My sword," he managed, grasping at his tormentor's arm.

"Understood. Ned, take Mr. Bench and see if you can't catch Mr. Nash's horse. Stephen, Combs, help me get him up."

"I don't think we dare, sir. He'll never survive the ride."

"He'll certainly die here if we don't try."

By the time they'd managed to get him astride the horse, the other man's arm wrapped tightly around his chest, he certainly wished he had.

The stranger's voice was low and oddly reassuring, close to his ear. "You needn't worry that I'll take advantage of you, Mr. Nash. I don't make a habit of killing men under my protection."

A breathless sound escaped Connor, the irony more than he could take. "Could have fooled me."

"Mm. And if I were you, I'd try a bit less talking, and a bit more fainting. Otherwise, this is going to be a very long ride."

He gripped Connor more tightly and kicked his horse forward; Connor, very shortly thereafter, took his advice.

* * *

When he knew anything again, it was the flicker and pop of a fire somewhere close, and soft linen against his face. He was warmer than he had been in weeks; the pain was only an echo, perhaps more memory than real.

The bedclothes smelled faintly of lavender. For a long moment, the scent tricked him, and he thought he was in the little croft in the highlands—that when he woke, Heather would laugh at him for sleeping till light when there were chores to be done and the cows to be seen to before they could ride into the village for the faire.

Awareness cut through the haziness of his half-dream. Tensing, he held still and listened.

"Glad to see you're back among the living, Mr. Nash. Feeling a bit better, I hope?"

The nape of Connor's neck prickled. It was never a good feeling to wake up in a strange place without a sword, an unknown Immortal keeping watch over you. But the other man only sat in a chair a little distance away, candlelight showing that same ironic half-smile, a book open on his knees. The bemused expression and raised eyebrow underscored the obvious—if he'd wanted Connor's head, he'd certainly had his chance.

"A bit," Connor rasped, pushing himself up onto one elbow. His mouth and throat were painfully dry. "How long was I out?"

"A few hours. It's never an easy death, a wound like that."

"There are worse."

"True enough. All the same, please allow me to apologize—and Stephen asks me to convey his deepest apologies, as well. An unfortunate case of mistaken identity. One for which I take full responsibility, as it happened on my land, and as a result of my faulty assumptions."

It had been more than twelve years since the last time Connor had let himself be killed, and now he remembered why he usually tried so hard to avoid it. The pain and the mess aside, there were always complications. "Apology accepted," he said shortly, and sat up. He pushed the bedclothes back, taking stock of himself and his surroundings. The room was large, comfortable, the fireplace in good repair, the furnishings expensive if well-worn. Someone, presumably his host, had done away with his blood-soaked clothes and dressed him in a fine lawn nightshirt; it seemed the stranger had him at a disadvantage in more ways than one.

As if reading his thoughts, his host set his book on the table and rose smoothly. "Your things are on the chest there, and there's a pitcher here if you're thirsty—I know I always am, when there's that much blood involved. We did find your horse, by the way, and your katana is safe downstairs." A wry grin canted his lips. "I hope you understand. One can't be too careful."

"Certainly not," Connor agreed, meeting the other man's eyes and seeing the seasoned fighter beneath the veneer of gentility, letting him see the same.

"Remarkable blade. I can see why you didn't want to be parted from it." The man smiled, a more civilized expression this time, and the tension eased. "Well, I'll leave you to get dressed, and then I'm sure you'll have some questions. Join me in the study at the foot of the stairs? We can share a drop of something a little more worthwhile, if you'll do me the honor. A small recompense for your inconvenience."

At that, Connor found the hint of a smile to answer his. "Now you're talking."

The other man's expression flashed understanding, a conspiratorial grin that reminded him, suddenly and painfully, of his student. "It's the least I can do. Pardon me, I'm being unforgivably rude—Matthew Fielding, at your service. And you needn't worry about being seen up and about, at least for tonight. I don't keep much staff here when it's just me. I've sent Ned home, and my housekeeper won't be back until morning."

He left the room, closing the door behind him. It came home to Connor that Fielding had done him a great favor by bringing him here, and at no small risk to himself—his host had proven himself worthy of some small measure of trust, or at least the benefit of the doubt, but he had no such guarantees about Connor. His quick thinking had saved Connor from exposure, and possibly even from being hanged for witchcraft; at the very least, dying before witnesses would have cost him his ship and the investments he'd made in London.

A gentleman, Connor thought, but not a fool. And not a green boy, either, he'd wager. _So what do you want, Matthew Fielding, and are you what you seem to be?_

* * *

'A little more worthwhile' turned out to be something of an understatement, though Connor wasn't surprised. Fielding did seem to have a taste for the finer things. Another thing he had in common with his kinsman. Connor wasn't sure, as he sat in Fielding's comfortable study sipping the best whiskey he'd tasted in an age, whether he liked Matthew Fielding in spite of, or because of, all the ways in which he reminded him of Duncan.

"You could, of course, simply disappear in the night if you're so inclined," Fielding was saying. "Problem is, you'll be leaving me with some tricky questions to answer if you do. Not to mention what'll happen if someone sees you."

"You might have saved yourself a lot of trouble, and gotten yourself a fine sword out of it."

"I might, at that. No more than you'd have deserved, riding down that road alone at night, I might add."

"You think so? I'd say getting shot was punishment enough, myself."

"I suppose I can't argue with that."

The wind whistled outside, but the house was solidly built, and the cold didn't reach them in the firelit study. "So what's the alternative?" Connor asked, studying the play of the light in his glass.

Fielding shrugged. "Send word to your ship and stay here, at the house. I can give the housekeeper leave to go see her family for a week or two, and Ned won't ask questions. Then we'll say you're well enough to travel, and you can take my carriage to Portsmouth."

Connor shifted his attention to his host, unable to help his curiosity. "You always this trusting with Immortals you've just met?"

"Let's just say I prefer to make friends rather than enemies, given a choice. A little decency goes a long way, I've found—and besides, I'm a good judge of character." His easy smile surfaced again, but the eyes that met Connor's over the rim of his glass reminded him of something else now, not Duncan's sunny good humor at all. Those eyes had seen a great deal, he thought. And he remembered something, the mention of a name, though when he'd heard it, he wasn't sure.

But later for that. Most Immortals tended to be a bit sensitive about questions regarding their age and origins, for obvious reasons. "Tell me about your young friend," he said instead. "The one who shot me. You were hunting someone. An Immortal?"

Fielding sighed, and poured them both another drink. "I thought so, but I can't be sure. Stephen is the youngest son of Sir Richard Walbrook, a friend of mine. There's been a series of robberies on that road. At first it was just robbery, but three days ago, Stephen's young wife Julia was killed in broad daylight, along with her brother, and Stephen was left for dead as well. The footman claims to have shot the highwayman through the heart—swears it up and down, as a matter of fact. So, I've begun to suspect our killer might be one of us. Hence my haste to condemn you on sight, I'm afraid."

"So much for you being a good judge of character."

"Touché."

Connor sipped, and considered. "You were right about one thing, Mr. Fielding. It was a stupid thing to do, traveling that road at night. But thanks to you, I've still got my ship and my name in England—not to mention a clean bed, a fire, and this very fine whiskey. I'd say that places me in your debt. And Immortal or not, you've got a killer on the loose. Even if I'm forced to lie low for a while, I can still watch your back. What do you say?"

"I say I'd be grateful." He offered his hand, and they shook on it across the small table between them, the other man's grip solid and warm. "But if you're really in my debt, then I'm afraid I'm going to ask you to call me Matthew. I've enough people around here who call me Mr. Fielding."

"Matthew, then." He hesitated only a moment before continuing. "And it's not John, actually. It's Connor." The flicker of expression was so subtle, so fleeting, he might have missed it, save for a sparkle in the dark eyes that his new acquaintance couldn't quite suppress. "But you knew that," he said, realization dawning at last.

Matthew's face quirked in wry admission. "I'd recognize Ramirez's old sword anywhere, I'm afraid."

Connor shook his head at his own gullibility. "I can see you'd be a dangerous man to face across a card table." He grinned a little, and showed his own hand. "Matthew of Salisbury, isn't it?"

At that, Matthew laughed. He got up and went to a cupboard, taking out Connor's sword, still carefully wrapped. "It is, indeed, Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. And I believe this is yours, since we've decided to trust one another for the time being."

"What choice do we have? Ceirdwyn would have our heads."

"True enough." He surrendered the katana to Connor, then picked up his glass. "It's very late, I'm afraid, and I've got to be out on the estate in the morning. Shall we drink a toast to absent friends?"

"To absent friends." But it wasn't Ramirez or Ceirdwyn that Connor thought of.

"And now, I shall bid you good night. I'll send Mrs. Grainger and her daughter home in the morning, but best stay in the guest room until she's gone." Matthew turned back in the doorway, and his grin seemed to lighten the pressure on Connor's heart. "After that, we'll be on the mercy of my cooking, so consider yourself warned."

* * *

Connor, as it happened, had been on the road a long time, and was well used to the makeshift cooking and housekeeping skills of two bachelors. By comparison with most of the places he'd slept in the past five years, the modest brick manor house offered unparalleled luxury, and creature comforts he'd almost forgotten. It was the inactivity that was the hardship, and the unwelcome company of his own thoughts.

His host was gone during the days, leaving Connor to roam the confines of the house; after the better part of a week his restlessness almost was more than he could contain. Though the housekeeper had been given the week off, to preserve the fiction of his convalescence, he still had to keep out of sight from the gardener and the groom as well as the occasional delivery from the village. His one diversion was the hours he spent each afternoon in meditation and kata, taking advantage of Fielding's fencing salon. It had been too long since he'd devoted himself to practicing flexibility and endurance exercises. Duncan liked to spar, and he'd let discipline lapse too often, for both of them.

In a different frame of mind, Fielding's library would have offered more than enough distraction. As it was, concentration failed him, and he'd find himself thinking of his ship, or looking out over the downs, itching for a horse to ride and the wind in his face. The weather didn't help; the March winds smelled of salt, reminding him that the sea was close, only a half day's ride, and the grass on the downs rippled like the ocean before its strong currents.

Fielding usually returned in time for supper. This they took to eating in the study, with companionable conversation to divert them and a good fire to warm them against the chill; they spoke of Connor's ship, and his plans for her, of the workings of the estate and her prospects, of the war on the Continent, and how long the peace would hold. After supper, his host would meet his gamekeeper at the stables, sometimes with another of his men from the village, and they would ride out with the dogs to watch for brigands on the road. Fielding was convinced that the culprits were locals, perhaps even lesser gentry, and that they hadn't gone far; for his reasons, he pointed out that a disproportionate number of assaults had happened within a thirty mile radius, perpetrated by someone who plainly knew the county well enough to elude dogs and men alike, and perhaps had strong reasons to stay close to home.

Connor itched to go with them, of course. It wasn't in his nature to stay home while others did what needed to be done—and it was hard to watch a man's back from the parlor window. But this stranger who wasn't a stranger had done him a kindness, and that was a rare enough thing that he wouldn't throw it away so easily. A week wasn't such a long time. He should be able to manage it without so much trouble. You'd think he was a green boy himself, as impatient as he'd been when Ramirez had met him.

He watched Fielding stride away from the house as twilight came on, and reminded himself that the man had survived three hundred years already by the time Connor was born, and that he'd been trained by one of the finest Immortal warriors still living. They didn't even know for sure whether the robber was one of their kind, and besides, more than a week had passed since the last assault—perhaps the villain had moved on.

He'd asked himself more than once in the long days of his confinement whether he was a fool to trust this man he'd barely met, why it mattered to him so much that he repay this particular debt. It wasn't like him to trust so easily, to feel such an instant kinship with one of his own kind. He could count on one hand the Immortals he'd considered true friends—and one of those, maybe the truest, wasn't exactly speaking to him at the moment in any case.

Maybe that was it. Maybe he was trying to make up for his mistakes, trying to prove something to himself.

Maybe it was just a relief, not being the one with all the answers for once.

Declaring a plague on the winding and treacherous roads of his own thoughts, he shed his waistcoat and shoes and took his sword into the salon. One thing this week had given him was plenty of time to learn just how much conditioning he'd lost; he gave himself now to the pure physical and mental concentration, imagining he could hear his teacher's scolding in his head.

It was late by the time he finished. Rain had started to spatter against the windows and it was chilly in the hall. He'd just started up the stairs when a surge of Immortal presence reached him.

Matthew came into the hall, wet from the rain, and Connor saw at once that that there were crimson stains on his clothes and on his hands, mixed in with the wet and streaks of dirt. His eyes looked hollow, but his face was set.

"Stephen's dead," he said simply. "They left his body in a ditch beside the road, not far from where we stopped you. He'd only been dead a little while when I found him."

"What was he doing out there alone?"

Matthew took his hat off and threw it on the hall table, making the candle gutter, and shook the rain from his hair. The blood on his hands caught his notice, as if it was the first time he'd seen it, and he grimaced. "I took him back to Ashton Hall. Sir Richard told me that Stephen went to Town on Tuesday to put up a reward for information. He took a description of his wife's jewelry and the other things that were stolen, and he was going to give it to the brokers there. He never came home."

"You think he was left on the road as a message?"

"Certainly seems that way, doesn't it?" He took something that looked like a ragged bit of cloth out of his pocket, rubbing it between his fingers with a fixed expression that Connor understood too well. "He had this in his hand when I found him, as though he'd torn it away in the struggle."

He showed it to Connor, who ran his fingers over the delicate bit of lace-edged silk. "It looks like it came from someone's cravat."

Matthew nodded. "That's what I thought. Someone with breeding, I'd say." His face was grim, his eyes shadowed. "I don't know what to make of it. This isn't about money any more. This was personal. I couldn't tell you how I know that for certain, but I do."

"We'll find who did this," Connor said, drawing close. "Tomorrow I'll ride out with you, and we'll find them."

Matthew looked up, the bitter lines of his face relaxing a little. "You're right. Men like this are all the same. They think they're invulnerable, and that's where they make mistakes."

"Why don't you go change into dry clothing? I'll get a fire going and find something to take the chill off, and we'll talk about where to start."

Connor's hand rested on the post at the foot of the curving staircase. Matthew closed his own over it briefly before he nodded and went upstairs.

* * *

Connor thought that he might have been at sea now if he'd been sensible, on his way to Lisbon instead of here in the middle of Sussex, drinking and listening to the rain. He supposed there was some irony in the fact that the young man they were drinking to had shot and killed him a week before, but it would have taken more cynicism than he could manage tonight to appreciate it.

"Tell me what you know," he said, absently straightening the pieces of the ivory chess set into solemn, even ranks. "You said you thought it was someone from the county, a local. Do you still think so?"

"I'm almost certain of it. And the more I think about it, the more sure I am that the bastard is someone I know. A landowner, perhaps. Someone in need of cash, but with too much invested here to simply decamp and move on to a new hunting ground. Someone who knows when and where to strike—who seems to have a gift for targeting particularly wealthy travelers, as if they were privy to society developments."

"And now, it seems, someone with a particular grudge against your friends the Walbrooks."

"I let this happen. I was so sure it was one of us." Matthew's fist closed helplessly on the arm of his chair. "Stephen promised me he would stay out of it, but I should have made sure." He drained his glass, drinking the cognac far too quickly, then sank down in his chair, empty snifter dangling negligently from one hand. The other rested against his eyes as if he could shield them from what he'd seen beside the road. "They're so fragile. That's the thing you always forget."

But Connor shook his head, rescuing the glass. He refilled it and freshened his own. "I wish I could forget."

Matthew looked up at that. "Don't you? Sometimes I feel like their world is the only real one, and we're just ghosts traveling through it. That we're the ones who are fragile."

"All life is fragile. Mortal or Immortal, it makes no difference. We have to remember that, or we will become ghosts, I think. Or worse."

"Yes, well, you're right there, my friend. I've seen it happen."

Connor nodded. It was something he'd always believed, and even Ramirez hadn't been able to change his mind. "I loved a woman once. A mortal woman. She was everything beautiful to me—the fairest and finest girl in all of Scotland. Ramirez told me to let her go, that if I dared to love her, and lost her, I would never recover." He smiled a little, and shrugged. "Maybe he was right. But I could no more have stopped loving her than I could have stopped breathing—and I've never regretted it. Not for a day, in all these years."

His companion's smile was wistful. "The way you talk about her, it sounds as though it was yesterday."

"Sometimes I forget it wasn't."

"You still think about her every day?"

"I hope I never stop." He turned the glass in his hands, wishing he could turn back time the same way, undo the chances he'd missed, the mistakes he'd made. "But I do think I finally understand what Ramirez was trying to tell me."

Matthew turned his head, listening. "Go on."

Maybe it was the warmth of the cognac that loosened his tongue, or maybe it was just that he missed having someone to talk to who understood, who knew him for what he really was—but for some reason, Connor found himself doing just that. "I'm afraid I've made a terrible mistake, and someone close to me has been hurt because of it."

"This have anything to do with why you were so foolishly riding along the London road alone that night?"

"You could say that."

The other man's eyes reflected the firelight. "Why don't you tell me about it?"

Connor sighed, tracing the curve of his glass with his fingertips, watching the way the faint marks of his prints marred the crystal. "My student. Well, I suppose he's not really that any more. His training was finished long ago."

"Some things never change, though."

"No, they don't. Anyway, we've stayed close, especially these last few years. We went into business together for a while. Afterwards, during the war, we traveled off and on—and then he met a girl."

"There's always got to be a girl, sooner or later."

Connor smiled a little at that. "With him, it's usually sooner. But this time it was different. She was one of us, only she didn't know it yet."

"Mm. Now, don't tell me you fell for the same girl."

"Heh. It wouldn't have been the first time. But no, that wasn't it. It was just—I was angry with him. Jealous, I suppose, only I didn't see that at the time. I saw myself in him, the way he had eyes only for her, and she for him. It hurt to watch them, and to know that they might have what my Heather and I could never have."

"It's only natural that you would envy him. I do, and I don't even know him."

"But you won't, when I tell you what happened."

This time, it was Matthew who refreshed their drinks.

"I thought I could save him from what happened to me. Just like Ramirez thought he could save me, I imagine. I went to him on the day of their wedding, and I told him he had a choice, and that it was up to him to make it." He closed his eyes and rested his head against his hand. "God help me, I told him not to tell her."

"I take it he listened."

Connor nodded, eyes closed. He pressed his forefinger and thumb against the bridge of his nose. "He listened, all right. He always did, when it counted." He pulled his face away and drank deeply, though the fine liquor tasted bitter. "She won't speak to him now. Won't see him. She's gone mad, they say, and her family has locked her up in a convent. She doesn't sleep for fear of the nightmares."

"And what of him? Will he try to win her back?"

Connor shook his head. "He says he can't bear to hurt her any more. That she... that she screams at the sight of him. Between us, we destroyed that girl, and I don't think he'll ever forgive either of us. I don't blame him."

Matthew was silent for a time, thoughtful. At last, he said, "We pay a heavy price for what we are. It's easy, after the fact, to say we should have turned left instead of right. But I think you're right—all we can do is live from moment to moment. In that way, we're no different than they are."

"So you don't think we're monsters?"

"Sometimes. But I think all men are capable of that. Just as all men are capable of grace, and forgiveness."

"Have you ever done it? Trained another Immortal, I mean?"

"Once or twice. The first time, I had no idea what I was getting into—and he seldom lets me forget it, you can rest assured."

"You're still friends."

That brought the hint of a wry grin. "Corwin and I were never what you'd call friends, but we do care about each other, I suppose. You know what they say about fathers and sons."

Fathers and sons... yes, he guessed Ramirez had been as much a father to him as anyone had been. Somehow, though, he'd never thought of Duncan that way. Kinsman, they'd always called each other. It was their way of saying they were brothers, like not saying goodbye was their way of saying there'd be a next time. Even angry as they'd both been, they hadn't said it this time, either. Harsh words had been spoken, and things he bitterly regretted now, but not goodbye.

"Give it time," Matthew suggested. "That's one thing we have that they don't. And whatever harm may have been done, you've given her that time, too." He paused, and Connor felt the weight of his curious regard. "He means a great deal to you."

What could he say to that? "We're family."

The other man nodded, as if he were satisfied. "Then he'll find forgiveness in his heart." That wry smile surfaced again. "Eventually."

"I hope so."

Matthew sighed, and ran a hand over his face. "It's been a long night, and tomorrow will be longer. I think it's time we put this cheery soiree to bed." He pushed himself to his feet and offered his hand.

Connor took it, and followed suit. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For listening. For reminding me that we're not all monsters."

"I think I needed to remember that, too, after tonight." Matthew squeezed his hand, and let him go. "Rest well, my friend. I'll be glad to have you with me tomorrow."

* * *

Connor slept soundly indeed, and when he woke to the first grey light of dawn, it seemed he'd closed his eyes only a moment before.

Heather's familiar weight rested against him, her small hand lying palm up on the pillow. She was fast asleep, looking like an angel where she lay, her hair spilling over his shoulder. She didn't wake when he stirred, only smiled a little to herself, as if she were having some happy dream. Connor watched her for a while, taken as he always was by how beautiful she was, how fragile the soft, smooth lines of her face, the young, healthy glow of her skin. She was in the flower of her youth, and he couldn't imagine not wanting to wake up beside her every morning for as long as he lived. Couldn't imagine life without her. That's why it had to be today.

He rose from the bed, careful not to disturb her. At the foot of the bed stood a chest that he'd carved for her after their wedding. Its fittings and hinges were carefully oiled, and made no sound as he opened it; inside, he found what he sought. The hilt of the knife fit against his palm.

He lay down beside her again, making his arm a pillow as she stirred a little and snuggled into his warmth. "That's my blossom," he murmured against her hair, kissing her. "That's my bonny Heather."

The knife slipped easily between her small ribs, piercing cloth and skin, muscle and tissue, straight into the heart with hardly any effort at all. He held her as she woke at last, kissed the silent 'O' of her mouth, but it was so quick, she didn't have time to cry out. A few seconds only, a brief flutter of struggle like a baby bird in the jaws of a fox, and she grew still in his arms, her life running out in a bright crimson stain against her white chemise.

He lay with her as the sun rose higher in the sky, as the blood stopped and her body cooled, the memory of her last breath in his ears. He lay with her, and he waited.

The setting sun was slanting through the cottage, gilt and red in her hair, when he stirred and realized he must have slept. Heather was still heavy in his arms. He was stiff from lying abed so long—they must have slept the day through. He pressed his lips to her temple to wake her.

She was cold to the touch. Drawing a sharp breath, Connor sat up. The knife was still in his hand. "I don't think it's working," he said, and with the words, the first chill of realization slid into his belly.

"I could have told you that."

Duncan sat in the lengthening shadows, in the chair beside the window. How long had he been there?

There was blood on Connor's hands. On his clothes--

"It's been too long. It shouldn't be taking this long."

"I know."

Connor looked over at him, but his eyes were veiled by shadow.

"Please, you have to help me."

"That's what I'm here for," Duncan said calmly, and rose, coming close. He took the knife from Connor's nerveless fingers and set it aside. He started unfastening Connor's clothes, pulling them off him as if it were something he'd done a hundred times. Connor felt suddenly ashamed that Duncan should see him, that he should let himself be so weak in front of Heather, and he glanced at her, relieved to see that her eyes were still closed.

"Come on, into bed with you," Duncan said, and his hands urged Connor to lie down beside Heather's body. Feeling as though he'd lost the ability to resist the insistence of Duncan's hands, Connor obeyed, and after a moment he felt Duncan climb in beside him.

"What--?"

"Shh," Duncan urged. There wasn't much room in the bed, and Duncan had to lie close; he was warm where Heather was cold, so cold, his arms closing around Connor and not letting him go. Connor's heart beat hard against his chest. He was afraid that Heather would wake and see them. Afraid that Duncan would see her there, and know what he'd done. He held himself still, and listened to the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears--

Not his heartbeat, but someone knocking at the door. The room was still in shadow, the early grey light blurring everything into soft, indistinct lines. "MacLeod?"

The dream lay heavily against his mind, and his face felt hot. He swallowed. "Yes, I'm awake."

"I've remembered something, and I think I have a good idea where we should start looking."

Shaking off the residual feelings of sick horror and shame, Connor swung his feet to the floor. His breeches were on a nearby chair; he pulled them on under his nightshirt and went to the door, opening it. Matthew stood in the hall, dressed to ride and intent with purpose, his expression promising hell to pay for someone. "Get the horses ready," Connor told him. "I'll meet you at the stables in a few minutes."

* * *

It was still grey out when he reached the stableyard, the sun not yet beginning to show in the east. Matthew was waiting for him, the horses saddled and ready.

"It came to me the moment I awoke," Matthew said as Connor secured his sword behind the saddle, then checked the pair of pistols the other man handed him. "I remembered something I overheard at Stephen's wedding party—his sister said to one of her friends, 'now poor Harry will have to give up his hopes of marrying into the Hawthorne fortune.' If he was in financial trouble and counted on Julia Hawthorne's money to save him, he might very well blame the Walbrooks for his ruin."

"This Harry. Do you know him?"

"I'm guessing she meant young Lord Wainbridge. I've played cards with him, seen him on hunts, that sort of thing. Rather a weak-minded fellow, I always thought. But perhaps he had us all fooled."

Connor swung into the saddle. "Well, then, let's go see what our friend Wainbridge has to say for himself."

* * *

They rode over the downs as the sun came up, the wet grass shining against the white chalk where the earth was bare, and in spite of their purpose, Connor thought he had never been so glad to be on a horse in his life. It seemed like weeks since he'd been outside. The salt air was wet and heavy with the rain from the night before, and he thought that if the fog cleared from the commons, you'd probably be able to see the sea.

It took them the better part of two hours to reach the outskirts of the Wainbridge estate. They found an old, overgrown lane that branched off from the road, and they decided to take a chance on it leading to the hall, reckoning the benefit of stealth was worth the risk. It proved a good guess; they were forced to take the horses at a walk and keep their heads low, but they'd gone maybe half a mile when the trees began to clear, and they could see the hall a little distance ahead.

They left the horses at the edge of the woods and approached on foot. Exposed, with only the garden wall between them and the windows of the hall, they moved swiftly. The grounds were overgrown, plainly in need of a gardener, and the paint around the windows had seen better days; as for the windows themselves, they were dark, and revealed no movement within.

"I don't like it," Matthew said quietly as they reached the gate. "All the little hairs on the back of my neck are standing on end."

"You're not the only one," Connor admitted—and the prickling sensation swelled as the nerve-jarring hum of Immortal presence swept over him, pressing against his skull.

Matthew's eyes met his. "And that would explain it."

"I thought you said you knew him. Something you forgot to tell me?"

"I do know him. He's no Immortal... but obviously, someone is. It looks like our footman wasn't imagining things after all."

"There must be two of them, working together."

"Well, they know we're here now. So what do we do?"

Connor thought fast. "Wainbridge seem like the fighting type to you, or more the kind who runs?"

Matthew answered immediately. "The latter. And as soon as he sees me, he'll know it's about Stephen. The stables, do you think?"

"Let's start there."

Wainbridge Hall was an immense, hulking mansion of yellow brick with an equally immense, semicircular portico sticking off the back; even moving fast, it took them a good five minutes to skirt the garden and come around the north side of the hall, still deep in slanting shadow. The sense of another Immortal stayed with them, the invisible threat close, and Connor kept an eye to the windows as they crossed the lawn and the curving side drive, half-expecting to hear the crack of a rifle or feel the brutal slam of a crossbow bolt between the shoulder blades.

They reached the front of the hall just in time to see their guess proved right: a young man with his wig askew, a satchel in one hand and a pistol in the other, was making his getaway. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw them; a gunshot rang out, and they caught a glimpse of his pale face before he broke into a run.

Connor and Matthew, in the open, looked back toward the hall. "I believe he was shooting at Wainbridge," Matthew mused. "Perhaps the love affair has gone sour."

"Too bad he missed."

"Mm. And let's hope his aim doesn't improve." He turned toward the hall. "You go after our young friend, and I'll take care of the interloper."

But Connor stopped him, a hand on his arm. "Wait a minute. Why you?"

"I got you into this."

"I got myself into this. Besides, you know these woods. I don't. Wainbridge is going to have a decent head start."

Matthew looked as though he would have liked to argue, but they were exposed where they were, and time was short. He stuck out his hand, palm facing down. "One throw. Winner's choice." Connor followed suit, and they counted swiftly to three, then looked down at their hands.

"I would have picked you for a rock man," Matthew said, regret in his voice.

Connor grinned. "Most people do. Winner's choice," he reminded, knowing Matthew was too much of a gentleman to renege on a wager. "Go. I'll see you back at the house."

Matthew clasped his hand briefly. "Good luck," he said, and broke into a run towards the stables.

Connor, pistol in his hand, made for the front door.

* * *

The once-grand hall had been stripped of most of its furnishings, and Connor's footsteps echoed softly in the empty rooms. He could still feel the other Immortal's signature, but he hadn't shown himself. Lying in wait to surprise his prey had been his particular preference, Connor thought grimly, but this time, the killing wouldn't be so easy for him.

The central hall led past the curved staircase, opening at last into the wide, semicircular wing they'd seen at the back of the house. It might have been a ballroom once, or a salon of some kind; it stood empty now, its fine parquet floor covered with a thick layer of dust. Footsteps were visible in it, leading towards the portico that wrapped around the back of the immense room. Connor followed them, watching the two remaining mirrors for movement behind him. He pushed open the door, and stepped once more out into the cool, wet morning to find his quarry waiting for him, a tall, lean figure leaning casually against a pillar.

"I'm Connor MacLeod, of the Clan MacLeod."

"Roger Kent." The man raised one sardonic eyebrow, eyeing his sidearm. "Are you going to use that on me?"

Connor smiled. "That's up to you. But I prefer doing things the old fashioned way."

"Oh, really? Where's your friend?"

"Making sure yours doesn't get too far."

Kent straightened away from the pillar and drew his blade. "Well, then, if you're not going to shoot me, let's get on with it."

"On second thought, maybe I will shoot you, and turn you over to the sheriff. Your friend will need company and hanging might do you some good, who knows?"

"Harry's an idiot who doesn't know better than to piss in his own soup. Now, do you think we can dispense with the niceties and get down to business?"

Connor uncocked the pistol and put it back in his coat, drawing his sword. "My pleasure."

Kent's flicker of smug satisfaction was the only warning he got. "I just knew you were that stupid," he said, and brought his own pistol up from behind the folds of his coat, aiming for Connor's chest. "The honest ones always are."

The gun went off, the flash of powder and the burning scent of sulfur all too familiar. Connor was already moving, his reflexes fast enough to keep the shot from finding his heart, but not fast enough to avoid the hot detonation of lead and blood and shattering bone that knocked the breath out of him.

The pain was bad, but he let momentum carry him forward and drove his left shoulder into Kent's midsection, knocking them both to the ground. Kent, caught off-guard, scrambled backwards and tried to untangle himself. He flipped the pistol around and smashed Connor in the head with it, making Connor see stars; it was a superfluous gesture, since the blinding agony when he'd tried to draw breath had all but crippled him. If Kent had let go of the pistol and gone for his head, things might have gone differently.

Luckily for Connor, that miscalculation and his own stubbornness saved him. He knew he didn't have long, not with the way he could feel his strength ebbing with the blood soaking his shirt, but after two hundred years, he was not going to give up his life's essence to an English, arrogant waste of wig powder like Kent. In the second it took Kent to regain his leverage, Connor set the pain aside, and moved.

If it hadn't been for the damage Kent had done with the pistol, Connor might have taken him without too much trouble; as it was, the fight cost him dearly, and he was bleeding from a dozen wounds before he managed to lop off the bastard's head with an ungraceful backhand slash. _Sloppy,_ Ramirez's voice said in his head. _Improvising,_ he shot back, and then the quickening took him on his knees, making him forget the hole in his chest and everything else besides.

When it was over, he lay on the wet grass and pressed his hand to the wound in his chest, feeling the blood pumping over his fingers in steady, warm pulses.

It was his last thought for some time.

* * *

The rain woke him, cold and bitter on his face. Did it always rain in this infernal part of the world, or only the entire month of March?

The smell of wet earth rose up around him, masking the smell of blood, and for that, he was grateful. He sat up. Nearby, Kent's body lay sprawled across the garden path; his head had rolled, rather gruesomely, into a patch of daffodils. Connor looked up, trying to guess how much time had passed, and the gray clouds seemed to mock him, spilling fat, cold drops on his nose, in his hair. He shivered, only partly from the chill.

His clothes were a hopeless ruin. Feeling as though his body had aged all of its two hundred years in one morning, he forced himself to get up and go into the house. The stairs nearly defeated him, but he couldn't travel like this, and he doubted even his horse would have anything to do with him as long as he carried the reek of blood and death on him. No help for it.

He found clothes and put them on, bundling up his own ruined ones and struggling with the fastenings because his hands weren't cooperating. Judging by the fading light, he'd lost half a day.

The rain showed no sign of stopping. He stood on the portico behind the hall, watching it fall in a soft, steady curtain that turned the garden and the woods beyond to a soft silver-green, blurred like an old looking-glass. He wondered what had become of Matthew, and hoped that nothing unfortunate had befallen him. He thought of their horses, standing tied in the woods not far off, doubting that they would be any more enthusiastic about the next two hours than he was.

With a sigh, he walked down the steps and went out into the rain.

* * *

The ride he'd barely noticed that morning now seemed to take a lifetime, and more than once he was glad that Matthew's horse knew the way home—but not half so glad as he felt when he reached the manor house at last, and felt the strong vibration of another Immortal presence wash over him. He rode up to the front steps and slid down from his horse, leaning against the animal's neck for a moment as unexpected relief sapped the last of his strength.

The door opened and Matthew stood there, relief of his own written in his expressive face. He ran down the steps, heedless of the rain, and squeezed Connor's shoulders as if he wanted to hug him. "Well, you are a sight for sore eyes. I arrived home just a little while ago and when you weren't here, I thought the worst! I was about to ride out again. Are you all right?"

Connor smiled tiredly. "Let's just say I've had enough of getting shot to last me a few decades."

Matthew's face darkened at that. "I hope you taught him some manners."

"I'd say he's not going to need them where he's going. What about Wainbridge? Did you catch him?"

"With over a thousand pounds worth of stolen money and valuables on him. He's safely in the hands of the Guildford sheriff. Although, I must confess, he may be a little worse for wear." His keen eyes took swift inventory of Connor's state. "Speaking of which, you look done in. Let's not stand in the rain; you go inside and get dry, and I'll see to the horses. Then I'll bring up some supper and we'll hear the whole story."

Connor lit a candle and took it with him up the stairs, nearly slipping on the polished wood from weariness. That would just complete the day, wouldn't it? Though he had to admit, falling down the stairs would probably be preferable to getting shot and stabbed in close succession. At least it was dry in the house, and Matthew might let him sleep it off in peace.

Without a fire, the guest room was far from warm, and he shivered a little when he stepped inside. His borrowed clothes, plastered to his skin with rain, made matters worse. Then it occurred to him, belatedly, that the clothes he'd been wearing earlier that day were the only undamaged ones he'd had.

For some reason, at the moment this seemed an insurmountable obstacle. Matthew would find him something to wear if he asked—but Matthew was down at the stables, and he balked at the idea of going into his host's rooms and finding what he needed, so for a while he stood in the middle of the room at a loss.

His feet squished unpleasantly in his boots. At least he could do something about that.

He sat down on the edge of the bed frame. A wave of vertigo came over him, and it occurred to him that outside of everything else, he hadn't eaten that day. His stomach rebelled at the thought, but he thought maybe that's why he felt so shaky, why the chill seemed to have sunk into his bones. His eyes fell on the thick sheepskin rug at the foot of the bed, and he thought that if he could just get warm for a minute, he'd be all right.

Hands tugged at him, merciless in their insistence. He protested, or tried to, but his wordless complaints seemed to have little effect—still he was shifted and bothered, pulled and fussed at, until sudden cold air on his skin brought him blinking and indignant into waking.

"What the hell are you doing?" he said before he knew where he was.

"Getting these wet things off," Matthew's familiar voice said matter-of-factly. He went on tugging the damp shirt off, ignoring Connor's ire. He'd already done away with the boots and stockings. A newly-lit fire leapt in the grate, and a tray with supper on it sat nearby on a small table. Connor's gaze fell on the food and stayed there, and he felt lightheaded.

"I fell asleep?" he said, feeling as though he should remember.

Matthew looked up at that, his face wry. "Passed out, is more like it." He finished with the shirt and tossed it onto the crumpled stockings, then reached for a glass on the bedside table, pressing it into Connor's hand. "Here, drink this. You'll feel better."

The aroma of the whiskey didn't help with the dizziness, but drinking it did make him feel better. The warmth spread outward from his belly, taking the edge off the chill that gripped him.

"I think you can manage the rest?" Matthew said, and the same wry humor was in his voice.

"I should hope so."

Matthew left him to put more wood on the fire, turning his back while Connor finished with the wet clothes and dressed, but the startling intimacy of the other man's touch stayed with him. He'd almost forgotten the dream he'd had before waking that morning. Now it had returned to him like some strangely coincidental echo.

Once dry and warm at last, he found he was ravenous, and the food was a good distraction. Matthew had set the tray between two wing chairs, and they said little for a while, concentrating on putting away the cold meat, bread and cider. There were plum tarts and dried sweet apples for dessert; these, too, disappeared in good order. When all was laid waste, Matthew got up and poured them more whiskey, its smoky spice even more welcome after all the sweetness.

"Wainbridge told me he met Kent in London," Matthew said, after Connor filled him in on the essentials regarding the other half of their erstwhile team of highwaymen. "At his broker's, I suspect. This Kent sounds like a classic opportunist. Wainbridge might have simply gone on the way he was until he was caught, if Kent hadn't got hold of him and given him a taste of killing."

"You think so?"

Matthew's fingers traced the rim of his glass, his expression brooding. "No," he said at last, taking a long drink. "A killer is always a killer. It might have taken him longer to get there, but murder was in him, Kent or no Kent." He looked down, his eyes veiled. "But maybe my friends would still be alive."

"It isn't your fault," Connor said, pouring more for both of them. This was getting to be a habit, too, he thought. "He fooled everyone. No one suspected him."

"But I should have. It should have been blindingly obvious, if I'd just taken the time to use the intelligence God gave me."

"He had his routine down to a science, until he made it personal. Like you said, men like him always slip up eventually. The first time he did, you had him."

Matthew glanced at him sidelong, his face a curious mixture of bitterness and affection. "You're trying to make me feel better."

"Is it working?"

"It's not making things worse," he admitted, his mouth turning up at the corners. "Thank you, my friend. I know you'll be leaving me soon, going to meet your ship. But I hope you'll understand if I say I'm not sorry I mistook you for a villain that night."

Connor had to smile. "Strangely enough, I don't think I'm sorry, either."

"I'm glad."

They might have let it go, then, let the mood lapse into mellow companionship, drinking quietly together until one or both of them fell asleep in the warmth from the fire. But Matthew was still studying him, his expression unreadable. Connor wondered what he saw. There was a warm, pleasant buzz in his head, and his skin felt oddly warm, too, as though he were flushed with some fever. His exhaustion had gone, and the quickening he'd taken hummed softly in his blood, making him more aware of everything: the acrid, pleasant scent of woodsmoke and whiskey; the sound of a whippoorwill somewhere outside; the steady beat of his heart.

Matthew set aside his drink. Connor watched him, feeling strangely hypnotized, as he got up and came closer, as he knelt easily at Connor's feet, almost between them. Their eyes still held fast, and he realized for the first time that Matthew's were not quite brown, as he'd thought, but hazel: a soft green like peat ringed with sable. His lashes were thick and black, like a girl's, while the sultry curve of his mouth was somehow nothing like a girl's--

The thought broke some spell of mesmerized fascination, jolting him. His face felt hot—his whole body felt hot. What were they doing? He drew a breath. "I've never--" He broke off, wishing he could wrench the words back.

Matthew's hands, strong and finely-made, came to rest gently on his thighs. "It's not that different."

That familiar contact warmed him through the thick cloth. He remembered the touch of those hands on his skin and felt himself harden in response. _You have to stop this now,_ he thought, but his heart was hammering because the betrayal and disgust he should have felt were nowhere in evidence. He didn't want to stop.

His hands found the other man's shoulders. It felt strange, the solid strength under his touch, but Matthew's skin felt warm through the muslin, felt good, and Connor's chest tightened a little as it came home to him how long it had been since he'd lain with anyone he cared about. "You don't--" he began, but the words caught; it felt like there was something pressing at his throat, and his voice sounded rough. "You don't owe me anything."

Matthew's lips parted in surprise, and a breath of laughter escaped him. "Is that what you think this is?" But he saw Connor's tension, and sobered, reaching up to lay a hand against Connor's throat, inside his shirt. His thumb caressed the hollow there, reassuring him. "Relax, my friend. There's no harm here. You live long enough, you get to know that this doesn't change anything, doesn't change who you are. It's a kindness, to find comfort with one of your own—don't deny yourself that comfort." He looked down then, as if at his own hand against Connor's taut thigh, but the expressive eyes betrayed him in the instant before he did and Connor saw the plea there, the mercy he wouldn't ask for himself.

So like Duncan he was. Such strong feelings, so much passion. The insight opened Connor's thoughts like the fan of a kaleidoscope, and the colors and patterns of this old soul revealed themselves, shadowed and layered and infinitely fragile. His heart felt sore. He touched the curve of that devilish mouth. "It's all right. I trust you."

Hazel eyes met his, and they shone now with some inner light. "I won't make you regret it."

And somehow, Connor believed that was as true as anything in this world.

What had seemed impossible before was surprisingly easy now, and he found himself touching the warm column of Matthew's throat, slipping his fingers into the thick softness of his hair. Not that different, Matthew had said—but it felt to him like a new world, where nothing was what he expected. Rough cheek where he was used to smooth... clean skin and the faint scents of whiskey and male arousal where he was used to powder and perfume... soft waves of hair sliding free in his fingers when he was used to elaborate curls and jeweled pins. Matthew held himself still, eyes closed, and let him learn the differences, let him lean forward and feel the barest prickle of his cheek, until Connor touched his mouth to the pulse at his throat and Matthew shuddered a little under the touch.

The arousal that small reaction spiked in him felt like a jolt to the belly. His lips parted and he let his tongue touch Matthew's skin. Matthew turned his head a little, giving him room, and that small encouragement was enough to overcome any hesitation he might have felt. He opened his mouth and let himself taste the salt and warm hollows of Matthew's neck and the soft places under his hair. The scrap of satin ribbon fell away under his fingers and Matthew's breath came faster, his hand roaming restlessly under the neck of Connor's shirt.

At last Connor broke for air, feeling a little desperate. His nipples were small peaks, aching with the unexpected heat of Matthew's fingers on his skin, and he was as hard as he'd ever been. His pulse beat with merciless insistence between his thighs.

"It's all right," Matthew said roughly, seeing his face. His fingers spread against Connor's throat, then slipped around to cup the nape of his neck. Without warning, he leaned up and his mouth was on Connor's, hot and firm and gentle, the touch of his tongue too brief against Connor's lips. Connor had time only to think that he hadn't known men kissed. Then Matthew was unfastening his breeches.

The rough pleasure of Matthew's hand against him would have been enough. Connor arched into it, thought leaving him as he leaned back and spread his thighs, groaning helplessly at the firm caress of that warm touch. It didn't matter that they were both almost fully clothed, he felt terribly naked and exposed, his face hot with it. But he didn't care, as long Matthew went on stroking him with that strong, uneven rhythm that made every point of energy in the cosmos seem to center on his cock. Then something wet touched him, the searing, forbidden touch of Matthew's tongue, and he stopped thinking altogether.

The inside of the other man's mouth was unbearably soft and hot when it sheathed him, taking his breath; he knew distantly that he was held, kept safe by strength he could count on. His hands clenched too tightly in thick hair and he couldn't have kept himself from thrusting into that wet heat if his life depended on it. There was no sound in the room at all save the sharp, pleading sound of his panting exhalations.

And then he looked down and saw Matthew bent over him, felt his tongue—something broke open and he came in a ragged, violent shudder, a wave of pleasure that rose up and flooded him without mercy and seemed never to end.

When it ebbed at last, Matthew let him go and rested his forehead against Connor's stomach. They breathed unsteadily together for long moments. At last, Matthew lifted his head. His need was written in his eyes.

"Come to bed with me?" His breath caught in a laugh, as though he'd surprised himself. "Just tell me if you can't—I promise I won't ask for more than you--"

Connor stopped him with a hand against his cheek. It was none too steady. "All right," he said, his voice rasping.

They undressed without saying anything more. It was awkward, and Connor doubted that he had the first idea about what he was doing, but he knew when they lay down together, Matthew's warm nakedness against his own, that it was going to be all right.

* * *

In the early hours of morning, he stirred to find Matthew awake before him, standing at the window, the counterpane wrapped around his shoulders.

Connor rubbed his eyes. "What time is it?"

"Not sure. Past six, I think."

He pulled the sheepskin around him and got up. The fire had burned down, and the floor was cold. "Something the matter?"

"Just watching the sunrise."

Connor stood beside him and looked out. The weather had broken at last, and the first pale, clear light of dawn was tinting a bright spring sky.

"Sometimes I forget why I like this part of the country so much," Matthew said, lips curving with that familiar half-smile.

Connor smiled, too, though his companion didn't turn to see it. "It does have a few saving graces."

"Mm. Well, I hope you'll remember that."

"Aye," Connor said softly. "I will."

Out over the downs, the sun was coming up; beyond them, in the clear morning, they could see the land as it fell away in gentle waves, the copses of trees in the bottoms and the fertile fields with their sandy earth giving way, at last, to white chalk cliffs that met the sea.

  
_the end_   



End file.
